Brigid of the Songs was the most famous
singer in Rossnageeragh, not only in my
time but in my father's time. It's said
that she could wile the song-thrush from
the branch with the sweetness of the music
that God gave her; and I would believe it,
for it's often she wiled me and other lads
besides from our dinner or our supper. I'd
be a rich man to-day if I had a shilling for
every time I stopped outside her door, on
my way home from school, listening to her
share of songs; and my father told me that
it's often and often he did the same thing
when he was a lad going to school. It was
a tradition among the people that it was
from Raftery himself that Brigid learned

Conntae Mhuigheó (The County of Mayo),
and isn't it with the Conntae Mhuigheó
that she drew the big tears out of the eyes
of John MacHale one time he was on a visit
here, along with our own Bishop, a year
exactly before I was born?

A thing that's no wonder, when we heard
that there was to be a Feis in Moykeeran,
we all settled in our minds that it's Brigid
would have the prize for the singing, if
she'd enter for it. There was no other
person, neither men-singers nor women-
singers, half as good as she was in the seven
parishes. She couldn't be beaten, if right
was to be done. She would put wonderment
on the people of Moykeeran and on
the grand folk would be in it out of Galway
and out of Tuam. She would earn name
and fame for Rossnageeragh. She would
win the prize easy, and she would be sent
to Dublin to sing a song at the Oireachtas.
There was a sort of hesitation on Brigid at
first. She was too old, she said. Her
voice wasn't as good as it used be. She
hadn't her wind. A share of her songs
were going out of her memory. She didn't
want a prize. Didn't the men of Ireland
know that she was the best singer in Iar-
Connacht? Didn't Raftery praise her,
didn't Colm Wallace make a song in her
honour, didn't she draw tears out of the
eyes of John MacHale? Brigid said that
much and seven times more; but it was
plain, at the same time, that there was a
wish on her to go to the Feis, and we all
knew that she would go. To make a short
story of it, we were at her until we took a
promise out of her that she would go.

She went. It's well I remember the day
of the Feis. The world of Ireland was
there, you'd think. The house was overflowing
with poor people and with rich
people, with noble folk and with lowly folk,
with strong, active youths, and with
withered, done old people. There were
priests and friars there from every art.
There were doctors and lawyers there from
Tuam and from Galway and from Uachtar
Ard. There were newspaper people there
from Dublin. There was a lord's son there
from England. The full of people went
up, singing songs. Brigid went up. We
were at the back of the house, listening to
her. She began. There was a little
bashfulness on her at the start, and her
voice was too low. But she came to
herself in time, according as she was stirring
out into the song, and she took tears out
of the eyes of the gathering with the last
verse. There was great cheering when she
had finished, and she coming down. We
put a shout out of us you'd think would
crack the roof of the house. A young girl
went up. Her voice was a long way better
than Brigid's, but, we thought, there was
not the same sadness nor sweetness in the
song as there was in Brigid's. She came
down. The people cheered again, but I
didn't notice that anybody was crying. One
of the judges got up. He praised Brigid
greatly. He praised the young girl greatly,
too. He was very tedious.

Who won the prize? says one of us at
last, when our share of patience was
exhausted.

Oh, the prize! says he. Well, in
regard to the prize, we are giving it to
Nora Cassidy (the young girl), but we
are considering the award of a special prize
to Brígid ní Mhainí (our Brigid). Nora
Cassidy will be sent to Dublin to sing a song
at the Oireachtas.

The Moykeeran people applauded, for it
was out of Moykeeran that Nora Cassidy
was. We didn't say anything. We looked
over at Brigid. Her face was grey-white,
and she trembling in every limb.

What did you say, sir, please? says
she in a strange voice.Is it I that have
the prize?

We are considering the award of a
special prize to you, my good woman, as
you shaped so excellently—you did that—but it's to Nora
Cassidy that the Feis prize is given.

Brigid didn't speak a word; but it's how
she rose up, and without looking either to
the right hand or to the left, she went out
the door. She took the road to Rossnageeragh,
and she was before us when we
reached the village late in the night.

The Oireachtas was to be in Dublin the
week after. We were a sad crowd, remembering
that Brigid of the Songs wouldn't
be there. We were full sure that fair play
wasn't done her in Moykeeran, and we
thought that if she'd go to Dublin she'd
get satisfaction. But alas! we had no
money to send her there, and if we had
itself we knew that she wouldn't take it
from us. We were arguing the question one
evening at the gable of the Boatman's house,
when who should come up but little Martin
Connolly, at a full run, and he said to us
that Brigid of the Songs was gone, the lock
on the door, and no tale or tidings to be got
of her.

We didn't know what happened her
until a fortnight's time after that. Here's
how it fell out. When she heard that the
Oireachtas was to be in Dublin on such a
day, she said to herself that she would be
there if she lived. She didn't let on to
anyone, but went off with herself in the
night-time, walking. She had only a florin
piece in her pocket. She didn't know
where Dublin was, nor how far it was
away. She followed her nose, it's like,
asking the road of the people she met,
tramping always, until she'd left behind her
Cashlagh, and Spiddal, and Galway, and
Oranmore, and Athenry, and Kilconnell,
and Ballinasloe, and Athlone, and Mullingar,
and Maynooth, until at last she saw from
her the houses of Dublin. It's like that her
share of money was spent long before that,
and nobody will ever know how the creature
lived on that long, lonesome journey. But
one evening when the Oireachtas was in full
swing in the big hall in Dublin, a country-
woman was seen coming in the door, her
feet cut and bleeding with the hard stones
of the road, her share of clothes speckled
with dust and dirt, and she weary, worn-out
and exhausted.

She sat down. People were singing in
the old style. Brígid ní Mhainí from
Rossnageeragh was called on (for we had
entered her name in hopes that we'd be
able to send her). The old woman rose,
went up, and started

Conntae Mhuigheó.

When she finished the house was in one
ree-raw with shouts, it was that fine. She
was told to sing another song. She
began on the

Sail Og Ruadh (The
Red Willow). She had only the first
line of the second verse said when there
came some wandering in her head. She
stopped and she began again. The wandering
came on her a second time, then a
trembling, and she fell in a faint on the
stage. She was carried out of the hall.
A doctor came to examine her.

She is dying from the hunger and the
hardship, says he.

While that was going on, great shouts
were heard inside the hall. One of the
judges came out in a hurry.

You have won the first prize! says he. You
did—. He stopped suddenly.

A priest was on his knees bending over
Brigid. He raised his hand and he gave
the absolution.